Hassan climbed out of the back and opened the front passenger-side door. He dragged Nara into the passenger seat, buckled her in, and climbed into the driver’s seat. He drove the car to a deserted parking lot, where he pulled over and cuffed her ankles and wrists, duct-taped her mouth, and gave her a shot of Rohypnol. The “date rape” drug would keep her unconscious for at least four hours and would cause partial amnesia about tonight’s events.
By tomorrow, it would no longer matter. Nara Mobassar would be dead.
On the trip to the Outer Banks, he kept his eyes focused on the road in front of him. He glanced over at her once, and guilt flooded him like a tsunami. He started reciting his chants with renewed fervency. Doing the will of Allah was never easy. But Hassan had died to his own comfort and his own desires a long time ago.
The only path now was one of total submission.*** fourteen years earlier beirut, lebanon
The funeral of Ahmed Obu Mobassar was nothing like the service for his brother Omar.
Eighteen months before, Omar’s body had been returned from the Palestinian camp and cleansed the same day in accordance with the Islamic rituals for ceremonial washing. His corpse had been covered with a plain white shroud and displayed in the courtyard outside the mosque. The young man’s father, Khalid Mobassar, had led friends and relatives in the salat al-Janazah-a funeral prayer that was part supplication for Omar and part praise to Allah. Mourners had been allowed to cry but not wail or sob uncontrollably. Allah was good. His will was perfect. Fifteen-year-old Ahmed had been reminded that a good Muslim must accept the way of Allah even when he did not understand it.
Omar’s burial had taken place in a common grave site, his body placed into an open grave without a casket. They had laid him on his right side, facing Mecca. Three small spheres of hand-packed soil had been placed under him-one under the head, one under the chin, and one under the shoulder.
Ahmed and his father had sprinkled three handfuls of soil on top of the body and recited the traditional words: “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.” The men had prayed and professed their faith. The women had not been allowed to attend the graveside service.
Ahmed had wanted to linger. He could not bear the thought of saying good-bye to his older brother. But he had clenched his jaw and fought back the tears and left with the other men.
Omar had been killed by an Israeli rocket while doing humanitarian work. But a year and a half later, when word came to the same mosque that Khalid Mobassar’s younger son had died, the circumstances were very different.
Omar had been a victim; Ahmed had died a martyr.
The mosque buzzed with a mixture of sadness and pride as the word spread. Ahmed had been conducting a raid with other Hezbollah warriors. He had detonated an explosive device strapped to his body, taking more than a dozen Israeli soldiers with him. His remains had been identified only through DNA.
The courtyard was packed for the victorious salat al-Janazeh offered on behalf of Ahmed Obu Mobassar. Curiously, the boy’s own father had elected not to lead the prayer ceremony. While many who attended seemed to walk a little straighter and pray a little more fervently knowing that Ahmed had died the glorious death of a martyr, Khalid Mobassar was not among them. Rumors swirled that he saw nothing but tragedy and a senseless waste of life in the loss of his second son.
Ghaniyah Mobassar, on the other hand, held her chin high throughout the ceremony, reciting the Shahadah more fervently than ever. “I testify that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I testify that Mohammed is the messenger of Allah.” The look on her face said it all. Her son was, at that very moment, enjoying the fruits of paradise. And he had redeemed his family members as well.
Ahmed’s sister did not seem to share that conviction. She stayed in the courtyard long after the other mourners had finished their prayers and departed. She refused to leave with her mother. She knelt on the baked dirt, tears rolling down her face, murmuring her brother’s name.
After a time, she rose to her feet and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I love you, Ahmed Mobassar,” she said. “I’m sorry I never told you.”
The video camera that captured every second of the service celebrating the glorious martyrdom of Ahmed Obu Mobassar was not close enough to record the sound of the words spoken by his sister, but reading her lips was not difficult.
The next day, as Ahmed watched his own funeral in the privacy of a Hezbollah hideout, the video unleashed a flood of emotions. He held them mostly in check until he saw the look of sadness and regret on his teenage sister’s face. They had always fought. He had never known how much she cared about him. She had always acted as if she didn’t care at all.
Truthfully, she was probably just putting on a show. Nara Mobassar always had to be the center of attention. The two siblings had become polar opposites. He had dedicated his life to serving Allah, to becoming a warrior like Mohammed. His sister, on the other hand, preferred to sit in the luxury of her Beirut home and criticize those who sold out for the glory of Allah.
When the video was over, Ahmed promised himself that he would never watch it again. He was a new man. The boy named Ahmed Obu Mobassar was dead.
He had excelled in his training as a Hezbollah warrior. He had professed his total submission to Allah and his death to his own fleshly desires. His actual martyrdom was coming; it was only a matter of time. By staging his death now, Hezbollah leaders could help Ahmed forge a new identity that would allow him to go places he could never have gone as the son of a high-profile leader in a prominent Beirut mosque. Ahmed felt heartsick about deceiving his family, but the leaders who had orchestrated the deception reminded Ahmed that it was all for the glory of Allah.
Al toqiah.
Watching the video had fortified Ahmed’s sense of destiny as a shahid-a martyr for the faith. He had already experienced the praise and celebration of a shahid funeral. How could he back out now?
His new identity was rich with significance. Hassan Nasrallah had been the leader of Hezbollah since 1992. Ali Ibn Abu Talib was a cousin of the Prophet Mohammed and a respected imam who had become the successor to the Great Prophet. Ahmed’s new name was a combination of the two legendary leaders: Hassan Ibn Talib.
That name filled him with pride, devotion, and a sense of destiny. The imams expected great things of him. He would demand no less of himself.
93
the present the outer banks of north carolina
Hassan pulled into the driveway of the beach house a few minutes after midnight. He had taken his usual precautions and lined the basement floor and walls with plastic. He had used plastic gloves and walked around in shoes that were a size and a half too big for his feet.
The Outer Banks area was largely deserted during the second week in December, especially this late on a Sunday night. After he prepared the room, he carried Nara in from the car and placed a hood over her head. It may be Allah’s will that his sister die, but nothing said he had to look into her eyes as he killed her.
The plan had been laid out in excruciating detail. Tomorrow, after court started, Hassan would send an e-mail from Nara’s iPhone to Taj Deegan at work. Afterward, he would toss the phone into the North Landing River.
By the time he sent the message from the Chesapeake area, Nara would already be dead in the Outer Banks. But he would make sure they didn’t discover the body until he was ready. By then, it would be impossible to pinpoint the time of her death.